


Tingle Tangles

by FrostedFlame (PinkOrchid)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hair Kink, M/M, cure for boredom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkOrchid/pseuds/FrostedFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John discovers a cure for Sherlock's self-destructive boredom. It leads to a bit more than either of them were expecting...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oops!

**Author's Note:**

> As usual.. don't own.. don't profit..

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself 'accidentally' petting Sherlock on the sofa. Interesting things occur.

Right now, John was feeling strangely content, conscious that the sensation was no less enjoyable for being rare. It had been a long but fulfilling day. Sherlock had been especially brilliant. They had solved a particularly nasty murder in record time, with the added bonus of an exciting chase at the end. John had thoroughly enjoyed the exertion, muscles singing and heart pounding against a backdrop of delicious danger. Thankfully, nobody had been shot, stabbed, gouged, punched (or insulted, Sherlock being on his best behaviour) or otherwise interfered with. They found a taxi in record time - even by Sherlock's standards - and arrived home safe and sound and giggling together on an adrenaline high. They opened the door to a beautifully cosy flat (the heating was working for a change) and he had managed to beat his flatmate to the bathroom in order to take a lovely, long, blessedly hot, shower.

He was currently slumped in the firm embrace of 221b's sofa, clad in his softest PJs. Every fibre of his being sang in pleasure at the soft brush of well-worn fabric on his freshly showered, glowing skin. It was late and the room was pleasantly dark, lit only by the amber glow of the lamp and the reflected flicker of the tv screen. He was feeling warm and nicely sated - dinner had been especially good tonight (Thai, takeaway, from the posh place round the corner) and there had been no dishes to worry about. The lovely bottle of Chardonay had gone down nicely, mellow and soft. The slight buzz it had caused was still humming through his veins and making him feel lazy and plaint. He stretched his legs out and sighed in happiness. 

He was engrossed in the latest Bond film, which he'd missed when it came to the cinema earlier this year - he'd been in the middle of a long and horrendous case with Sherlock at the time. Oh yes, and his girlfriend back then had just been summarily dismissed (Sherlock again), so he'd had nobody to actually go with. Cinema really wasn't Sherlock's thing, unfortunately. The movie was engaging in a lots-of-explosions way but with a story that was easy enough to follow without requiring too many brain cells actively online. His mad flatmate, Sherlock, was stretched out on the sofa beside him, sprawled for maximum engagement of space. However, in spite of the rather predictable plot playing out onscreen, the consulting genius had not resorted  to deducing the characters or otherwise scoffing at the movie. John was, all things told, happy. All was well with the world. 

All of a sudden, John surfaced from his haze of happiness and noticed two slightly horrifying things. Firstly, he became startlingly aware of exactly how close Sherlock's head - curly locks resting on John's upper thigh - was to the bulge of his nascent erection. Secondly, he realised with a jolt, that his hand had been rather pleasantly engaged in carding through Sherlock's soft and sensuous hair. He hadn't meant it. For sure. He wasn't even aware of when it started. He froze, horrified at the thought that he had apparently been  _carressing_ his flatmate without prior permission being obtained. Never mind that he was not gay. Sherlock was the ice king apparent. He would most definitely  _not_ be amused. And a not-amused Sherlock meant loss of limbs or other indignities being rained upon a person's - ehh, well, person. 

"For God's sake, John, get over your little crisis please. Get back to rubbing my head," Sherlock mumbled, grumpily. 

 _Oh_ , thought John.  _He must like that. Actually - that may well be the reason he is letting me watch my film in peace. Hmm. Might as well keep going then.._

"Alright - keep your hair on," he said with a smirk, as his hand resumed it's this-is-definitely-not-petting motion. 

 _Who knew?_ he thought.  _Who'd have thought - Sherlock Holmes likes having his head rubbed. It's kind of - sweet, really. Well. I don't care, so long as it keeps him quiet for the rest of the movie._

And keep him quiet it did. Sherlock didn't so much as twitch for the entire rest of the movie and well into the news that followed. It was so unlike him that John felt obliged to surreptitiously check his pulse every now and then, in case the man had actually expired. But no, although obviously alive, his flatmate kept still and calm and unusually quiet for the next 2 hours together. John was amazed. And a little bit proud. Had he really managed to find an off switch? How useful that might be! But maybe it was just co-incidence. He'd have to - wait and see. In the meantime, he could not help but enjoy the slow slide of silky locks through his nimble fingers. And if he enjoyed it rather too much - well, that was nobody's business but his own. 

When he finally had to move, unable to keep his eyes open any longer, it was with great regret that he slipped his fingers from Sherlock's beautiful curls. 

"Sherlock," he whispered. "Time for bed. Come on. Up you get!" 

The man was so relaxed he was almost unable to navigate the distance from sofa to bed - John had to half-support him as he went. As he lowered his friend and flatmate onto his bed, he couldn't help but wonder at the strange effect his ministrations had had. It was - disconcerting but exciting, at one and the same time. He resolved to investigate further. This could be a powerful advantage, if his suspicion was indeed correct. 

Smiling, John Watson went to bed, his head full of images of silken locks and boneless consulting detectives. 

 


	2. In the Interest of Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides to 'chance his arm' at another not-carress... in the interest of helping a certain mad genius detective of course, no personal gain..

John spent quite some time that week reflecting on the 'incident of the accidental rubbing'. He had only a hazy recollection of the events leading up to finding his hands buried in his flatmate's hair. He knew he'd been distracted by the pleasantness of the evening  - and of course his attention had been firmly fixed on the film at the time. He remembered Sherlock curling up in a ball beside him at the start of the movie, muttering and huffing, as he usually did, before he settled down. He had a vague memory of Sherlock complaining about the lack of space (he professed to hating it when John took space on the sofa, which was too bad, as it was really the best place to watch the tv). The mini turf-war that ensued had ended with Sherlock shoving his head onto John's thigh in an act of defiance, perhaps to make his point. John had blithely ignored the incursion and had continued watching his movie. He was by now well used to Sherlock's relaxed attitude to personal space.

What he was less clear about was how it had gone from putting up with Sherlock being, well, Sherlock, to allowing his fingers to trail through those silken locks. It was not something he would have done in his right mind, of this he was certain - in spite of his occasional secret fantasies about his flatmate, he was well aware that this kind of display would be decidedly off-limits. But then, he was always a tactile sort of person, and had been used to snuggling on the sofa with Mary and the many girlfriends before her. So it had probably begun as an automatic response, an absent-minded stroking, without being aware of what he was doing. He really couldn't say.

However, the part that confused John most was how Sherlock had apparently accepted his touch without grumbling, complaining, or being downright scathing about it. He had kept silent as a mouse. And when John had realised where his hands were, and stopped, Sherlock had insisted that he resume his actions. Perhaps even more astonishing, Sherlock had resolutely ignored the topic the next morning. Sure, he had been a little cool with John, head bent over his microscope, giving monosyllabic replies, but this was nothing terribly unusual. When Sherlock finally gave up the experiment (or pretence of one, perhaps), his eyes were cold and narrowed as he favoured John with an assessing gaze that made him feel a bit like a specimen himself. Not to mention that John had drawn more than his normal quota of eye-rolls and sarcastic comments for a couple of days. But the tempest John had been expecting had just - not materialised. And when John himself had awkwardly attempted to bring it up, he was met with a wall of icy silence followed by Sherlock abruptly leaving the room.  

John figured it was best just not to mention it again. However, it did leave him with a bit of a problem. Should he attempt it again? Being absolutely honest with himself, he had quite enjoyed it. He had long harboured a secret yen for his flatmate's unruly curls, and getting to touch them had been - strangely satisfying. He wouldn't mind doing that again. At all. Plus, it had seemed to have a rather pleasant effect on his flatmate's peace of mind. Sherlock had remained absolutely still for hours, something he  _never_ managed to do, especially on a post-case adrenaline high. The head-rub had left him pliant and - well, floppy. It was adorable. John wondered to himself if his friend was just completely touch-starved, a suggestion that made him a little sad, actually. Everyone deserved to be touched, it was a basic human need, and Sherlock apparently had nobody to _touch_ him. Unless you counted the odd hug from Mrs Hudson (John didn't count this, not much). Of course there was another theory, one that John was desperately trying to ignore. Perhaps - well, perhaps Sherlock  _liked_ having his head rubbed. You know. _Liked_ -liked. The idea that the man may have a hair stroking fetish - or even just that he found it - arousing - John shuddered faintly at that word - was strangely disconcerting. John wasn't sure what to do with the thought. It went round and round in his head until he just couldn't bear it any more. He decided to approach the issue in true Sherlockian fashion. He would carry out an experiment, of course.

*** 

The perfect situation presented itself three days later. They had not had a case for almost a week now, and Sherlock was slowly descending into a typically destructive bout of boredom. It was horrible to watch. By Tuesday he was a bundle of agitated inactivity, having colonised the sofa, unmoving save for bouts of near manic flopping about. Right now, his back was to the room, he was clad in scruffy pyjamas and his oldest blue robe, feet bare. _At least he has washed_ , thought John, having succumbed to John's gentle persuasion to take a shower earlier on, in the interests of public health. A bored Sherlock was an unbearable Sherlock. He scowled, snapped and otherwise made life miserable for all who dared to enter his orbit. John decided to put The Plan into action. It certainly couldn't make things any worse. He started by popping upstairs briefly to change into a t-shirt and soft pyjama bottoms. _Here goes nothing,_ he thought, as he entered the sitting room again. 

Nonchalantly, he tapped Sherlock on the shoulder, commanding him firmly to "scoot up please, Sherlock!" before lowering his body at a rapid enough pace that Sherlock had no choice but to move with a surprised yelp, or risk getting sat on by John's descending arse. This earned him an epic scowl and a snarled "what are you playing at, John?" - both of which he steadfastly ignored as he zapped the television on with the remote that had been nestled on the arm of the chair. Sherlock flapped about in a strop and thumped his arm several times experimentally. This got no response at all from the stoic Captain, causing the detective to huff and sulk and wriggle down a bit to place his head on a cushion beside John's hip, muttering and hissing like a demented cat. 

John's lips twitched at his antics, but he  _would not_ ruin this chance by laughing - no good would come of that, for sure. Slowly, tentatively, keeping his eyes locked fast on the television screen, he moved his hand from his own knee until it was hovering in the vacinity of Sherlock's head. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his fingers to ghost - gently, so gently - over his flatmate's raven curls, waiting to see what the man might do. Sherlock stopped mid-mumble. His eyes flew open, his whole body tensed, then  _quivered_ and finally went absolutely still. The tension ratcheted up a couple of notches. Neither man dared to breathe. There was not a single twitch, in fact Sherlock had gone so artificially silent that John almost lost his nerve and withdrew his hand again. But he was made of sterner stuff than this, he'd gone too far now to beat a retreat. As no outburst came, either verbal or physical, he took the unnatural stillness to be a shocked kind of permission. Or at least not an outright rejection. Keeping his touch light, he let his fingers sink further into the silken mass and carded gently. Another shiver rewarded his actions and although he couldn't see Sherlock's face except in profile, he was fairly sure that the man's eyes had just rolled up in his head. _Alright then. Success!_

Cautiously deepening his touch, John began to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair in what he thought would be a reassuring kind of rhythm. Mostly he stuck to running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, but every now and then he made sure to make contact with Sherlock's scalp as well, earning him further shivers, and once, he thought, a brief cut-off almost-moan.  _This is nice,_ thought John, as he sank back and relaxed into the motion, loving the feel of silk sliding through his fingers and relishing the silence and lack of frenetic movement that usually signalled a bored and frustrated off-case consulting detective. _I could get used to this!_   he thought. 

After another hour of prolonged silence, he felt as if he should say something. 

"You ok there, Sherlock?" 

"Hmm," was his only rumbled reply, base notes of baritone sounding suspiciously like a purr. 

"Don't want me to stop?"

Sherlock managed a small scoff in reply, and after a pause, a weakly muttered "Far be it from me to spoil your pleasure, John" But John could tell he didn't really mean it, he was just trying desperately to save face. Or as desperate as you could be when completely, utterly, relaxed. The tone barely registered as snark, for one. And the man's boneless posture as he sprawled on the sofa belied his words. So John smiled silently to himself and kept going, watching Sherlock's toes curl rhythmically against the far arm of the sofa in time with his movements.

Late into the night, he reluctantly surrendered to exhaustion. He managed to roll Sherlock off the sofa and into his own room, where he had reasonable hope the man might actually sleep for a while, considering his currently hyper-relaxed state. John had great hopes for his new anti-boredom remedy, although he resolved not to over-use it for fear of pushing Sherlock too far. He would hate to ruin the potential of more beautiful moments like this between them. It had felt - rather intimate, actually. Strangely, he found himself quite enjoying the leftover tingles in his fingertips as he floated up the stairs to bed. All in all - a pretty perfect end to the day.

 


	3. Butterfly Stroke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Sherlock asks (after a fashion) for John's touch

Several weeks passed in the usual way. Cases came and went, but on balance, they were more occupied than not. There were no episodes of epic boredom from Sherlock, and John's worst complaint had been a mild case of sleep deprivation due to the odd hours they kept while working. Things were good. 

Then came one of  _those_ cases, the kind that was no fun at all. In the frantic scramble to catch an especially sadistic murderer, they had tried - and failed - to save a very young boy. The mother had been inconsolable and the yarders had all been affected by her grief. Sherlock acted as if it was just another case, but John knew the detective better than that. He knew the self-blame and sorrow that Sherlock was hiding well enough to earn a muttered  _heartless freak_  from Donovan as they passed. (And if John could have gotten away with punching her right then, so help him, he would have gladly taken the swing). 

Sherlock acted like none of it mattered, but when he got home he ignored John, going straight to his room and shutting the door. John knew better than to try to bring him out before he was ready. He settled himself on his armchair with a cup of tea and a book, an attempt at distraction from the heart-rending scenes he had witnessed. 

A short time later John heard Sherlock's door open, followed by the detective's slow steps approaching the sitting area. _That's unusual_ , thought John, _when Sherlock's upset you don't see him for hours, even days sometimes_. He looked up and saw how sad his friend looked, shoulders drooping and an air of defeat in his eyes. But he didn't try to talk to the man - not wanting to risk doing anything that might send Sherlock right back to his room. To his surprise, the detective stopped in front of John's chair and folded his long limbs as he sat gracefully on the floor, pushing back into the space between John's knees.

John froze. What did this mean? What should he do? Ignore it? Sherlock huffed, but it sounded more embarrassed than annoyed. He grabbed John's hand and placed it carelessly on his head. When John still didn't move, he began to insistently nudge upwards against John's palm.  _Oh,_ thought John. _Yes, well. I can do that. If it helps._ Slowly, he began to run his hand along Sherlock's hair in a long, sweeping caress that soon had the man relaxing back towards the armchair (towards John).

After perhaps another ten minutes of this, the taller man slowly turned his head and rested it against John's leg, just up from his knee, so that he was pressing his nose and eyes softly into John's denim-clad thigh. He didn't say anything. Neither did John. It was such a vulnerable gesture, seeking comfort, allowing his need for John's support to show. John barely breathed, for fear of ruining this precious moment between them.  _Poor Sherlock_ , John thought to himself,  _such a weight of responsibility on him, so many lives lost, so many more saved. But of course he'll focus on the losses. He expects so much of himself sometimes. I can rub his hair all night if that's what it takes._

Neither man noticed the daylight fading as they lost themselves in this silent form of communication. John couldn't help but feel that some kind of barrier had been broken. He had often helped - even comforted - Sherlock in the past. But never like this. Never physically. And his help had been offered, sometimes forcefully pushed, onto the proud young man, and always at risk of immediate rejection. This was the first time Sherlock had  _asked_ and _accepted._ To John, this seemed significant. He felt the tiniest bit ashamed of being so happy about it, since it was due to the overwhelming sadness of his friend.

After a while, the strokes slowed until there was just the reassuring weight of John's hand resting on Sherlock's head. Eventually, Sherlock lifted his head from John's thigh, turning his face towards John slightly. His eyes gleamed in the twilight, but his face was calm. John's palm slid down to his shoulder.

"Tea?" asked John, not sure what else to say as this was the first time they had transitioned from petting-Sherlock to not-petting-Sherlock while the detective was still awake and alert.

"Yes," was the only reply he received, until he had risen from the chair and turned towards the kitchen. Then - so softly that John barely heard it - came a quiet little "Thank you" from his friend. When he turned around to acknowledge it with a heartfelt "Any time", Sherlock was already gone from the room. 

As John had anticipated, Sherlock did not mention the episode again. Although John did think he detected a softening in his friend's expression now and then when the man's eyes were upon him. But he kept his curls far from John's hands and John - not wanting to push it - followed Sherlock's lead, happy that Sherlock would find a way to ask, should he need him again.  


	4. Lines Blurring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John notices just how much Sherlock enjoys these sessions.. he's not sure how that makes him feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter in a day today - as my chapters are so short!

Today was shaping up to be one of Sherlock's really bad days. John recognised the symptoms as soon as he woke up. The consulting detective was jittery, on edge, and worst of all, loudly proclaiming that he was "Bored, John". It was almost unbearable. His fingers drummed up and down on the arms of his chair, his feet jigging restlessly, his eyes dark and wild and frantic. There were no cases, no experiments that were worth exploring. Even the violin had been rejected. By the time John had finished his shower, Sherlock was almost gibbering. John sighed. It had been a while, and honestly he hadn't missed these dark days. John reckoned it would be about 5 minutes more before Sherlock started demanding cigarettes - or worse, something stronger.

John had just made tea, but he doubted tea would do it, not today.  _Right then. Time to do something about this before it escalates any further._ He set the tea down on the side table, within reach of Sherlock's long arms, but not so near that a random flail would topple it inadvertently. Taking a deep breath, John walked forcefully up to the side of the armchair and simply did not stop. The first step up onto the seat was a bit of a stretch for his slightly shorter legs, especially as he had to shove his foot down between Sherlock and the chair for leverage. But it was do-able. Sherlock's astonished scowl was dismissed as irrelevant. John swivelled and plonked his arse on the back of Sherlock's armchair, letting his knees fall on either side of Sherlock's shoulders. _Bit of a stretch but bearable_ , he thought, letting his toes wriggle their way under Sherlock (well - more accurately, under Sherlock's bum, but he wasn't going to think about that, really).

Sherlock made a sharp noise of outrage. "What _are_ you doing, John," he all-but snarled, as John's hands came to rest on his shoulders. _Perfect height for this. Good,_ he thought. "Giving you a massage, Sherlock," was all he said, in his calmest, most matter-of-fact voice. Sherlock's immediate sounds of protest were summarily silenced when John's hands went to his hair.  _Good, all good. Keep going, so._ John started with a light stroking motion, just breaking the surface. Soon he progressed to carding gently, teasing out the tangles where Sherlock had been tugging at his own hair in frustration overnight. Gently and calmly, he kept up the relaxing movement of his hands. He found he liked being able to use both hands at once, being able to focus more completely on this now that he was officially 'giving a massage' and not just randomly petting his friend.

After a while, John deepened his touch so that he could swirl his fingers across Sherlock's scalp. That earned him a soft sigh and made him brave enough to engage his nails to rake lightly across Sherlock's head. And oh God, that was a moan. That was definitely a moan. A loud one! Sherlock drew in a breath, and gripped one of John's wrists in the universal signal for 'please stop'. John felt a blush stretch up from his neck, feeling strangely embarrassed.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to -"    

"It's alright," Sherlock replied, but hesitantly. "I don't - I don't mind. Just - it is rather a peculiar feeling. I find, when you do that thing, with my hair, I find it - soothes me somehow. It makes my thoughts  _stop._ Do you know how rare it is for that to happen, John? It - you don't have to stop." Sherlock paused, drawing in a breath, and his next words were rushed and almost inaudible, as if tumbling over themselves to come out. "Justitfeelsreallygoodand-"

"Ok," John says. "It's all ok. I'm happy to do this whenever you need it. I'll - just keep going. And you can tell me. If it gets too much. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded minutely and released his hold on John's wrist. John swallowed, wondering what on earth he was doing, and went back to carding his fingers through those wayward curls again. This was definitely working - Sherlock was calm and content. But if John was being honest, he was starting to enjoy this activity almost as much as his flatmate. It felt as if Sherlock's verbal acknowledgement of what they were doing - after weeks of ignoring it - had freed something in John. He felt bolder, more willing to explore. Tentatively, alert for any hint of a negative reaction, he allowed his hands to travel downwards, to the back of Sherlock's neck, finding a few knots there to work out with his strong fingers. Sherlock did not make a single sound after that, there were no further moans and the man did not so much as twitch, which John took as willing compliance with the 'massage'.

Drawing courage, John's hands went even further afield, moving to rub gently behind Sherlock's ears, his temples, his jaw. Still alert for any sign of distress, John noticed that Sherlock's shoulders had begun to move up and down a bit heavily. Then he realised the man's chest was moving erratically too, and that the motion of both pieces of the Sherlock's anatomy was caused by an increasingly rapid pattern of breathing. John glanced down along Sherlock's body, immediately moving into doctor mode.  _What? Is something wrong - doesn't he like th- oh!_  

And there it was - an unmistakable tenting at Sherlock's groin, signalling a rather more intense  _liking_ of this activity than John had been anticipating. John was surprised by the rush of heat the sight of it caused. He stiffened slightly, unsure what to do, or if he indeed wanted to  _do_ anything at all. Instantly, Sherlock noticed the change in movement. He snapped out of his reverie, and seemed to suddenly become aware of his predicament. His jaw tightened. "Just ignore it, John," he spat out.

John paused for the barest of seconds, before he slowly, cautiously, began to move his fingers again. Sherlock's entire body stilled. A second later, without saying a single word, he rose from the chair and John's hands fell from his shoulders. Sherlock gathered the edges of his blue robe around him and donning his regal pose like an armour, strode purposefully off to his room.

He didn't come out all day.

John wasn't sure about this latest turn of events. On the one hand, the 'massage' (he couldn't help the air-quotes in his mind's eye) had helped. It had broken him out of the foulest of moods. But on the other, the rather unexpected effects of having John's hands on his sensitive scalp (and neck, and jaw..) had sent Sherlock rushing for cover. He was clearly embarrassed about it. John didn't even know if Sherlock regularly had erections, or if that part of being a man was just as ignored and suppressed as his desire to eat to support his 'transport'. Hell, he couldn't tell if Sherlock ever had sex - or even if he has ever had it at all. With someone else or alone. Or with a man or a woman. Or both? It was one area he had never dared to broach with his flatmate. Honestly, they'd lived together all this time, surely if he had partners, if he was sexually active, John would have known? He had begun to think perhaps Sherlock was simply asexual. And yet - well, his reaction to John's touch had definitely been one of arousal, regardless of his embarrassment at the fact. 

And John himself was conscious of some very mixed feelings about the whole thing. He had really not expected this reaction. And he was not sure at all how he felt about a sexual side to his often remote flatmate. It was a whole new side to Sherlock, one that felt edgy and - frankly - dangerous. John was sorry his actions had caused his flatmate to feel threatened. That had not been his intention. But what had his intention been, then? A little voice at the back of John's head was willing to admit that not only had he enjoyed the contact - perhaps too much - but that there was a small part of John that perhaps welcomed being the one to cause this reaction in the apparently asexual Sherlock. 

John had a lot to think about. Apparently so did Sherlock.

 

 


	5. Harsh Words, Soft Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is upset, Mycroft should know better, and John - is his usual comforting self

When John walks into 221b three days later, there is a smirking not-so-minor government official inhabiting his chair. He grits his teeth - after all, the man is Sherlock's brother, no matter how irritating - and offers him a cup of tea. God knows Sherlock won't have offered any. He glances over at his flatmate and finds him sprawled aggressively in his leather chair. Honestly - how can the act of half lying on a chair, limbs impossibly angled, be an act of aggression? But then, Sherlock perfected posture as a personal weapon long ago. He also has a particularly fierce scowl on his face. _Right then, battle stations,_ thinks John. 

He goes to the kitchen and sets about making the tea. The Holmes brothers seem to be in the middle of a silent - and largely unpleasant - conversation. This in itself is not unusual, so John feels free to ignore it. Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of the rhythmic twirling of Mycroft's umbrella against the floor. For some reason he finds it hugely irritating. He grits his teeth again and serves the smug bastard some tea. 

Placing a cup beside Sherlock's elbow, he settles himself and his own mug on the sofa. He briefly considers 'giving them some space' but reminds himself that he lives here too and that if Mycroft really wanted privacy he undoubtedly has the means to kidnap his brother instead. 

"How nice to see you, John," Mycroft says, his toffee-coated words doing nothing to ease John's irritation. "Haven't gotten  _tired_ of this living arrangement yet? How nice for you. So  _domestic_. You really should get a medal for putting up with my dear brother for so long. Admirable, really." _  
_

Sherlock's scowl intensifies, but John, who has studied Sherlock's body language extensively, can see the defeated slant to his shoulders. Mycroft's acid comments have found their target. What's worse, it's possible that Sherlock secretly agrees. 

"I find our living conditions suit me just fine." John looks straight at Sherlock as he says this. 

"How charming." Mycroft sharpens the needle in his tone. "Won't be long before he chases you off too, like he has everyone else. You'll come to your senses eventually, they all do."

John's eyes grow wider. He can't believe Mycroft has just said that.

Sherlock growls out a perfunctory "At least I have a friend, not like you," but the insult lacks Sherlock's usual finesse, so John can tell he is upset.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock", his brother retorts. "Remember Victor Trevor." 

The whole room seems to tilt and freeze. Time stands still. Sherlock's face drains of all colour and it's clear to John that the man is both horrified and _absolutely livid._ John has no idea who this Victor person is, or why the mere mention of his name upsets Sherlock so, but it occurs to him that this is not the time for idle curiosity. He really should get Mycroft out of here - fast.  

So quickly that the arrogant twat doesn't have a chance to react, John grabs him (and not gently, either) by the arm. He pulls him from the chair and bundles both him and his horrid umbrella swiftly out the door. 

"Bye Mycroft, thanks for calling. Leave now," he says in his Captain's Voice, as he abruptly closes, and locks, the door in Mycroft's incredulous face. He can hear Mycroft huffing outside but he doubts the man is simple enough to actually try getting back in. 

He turns back to the room, before Sherlock can make an escape to his bedroom. Sherlock looks lost, furious, and embarrassed, all at once. His cheeks are icy white with bright red spots in the middle. His eyes are dark and stormy and his chest is heaving. His fists are clenched. He looks like he wants to hit something and he is glaring at John, as if challenging him to say something, to ask about _that_ name. 

John slowly goes back to the sofa, sits on one end, and - keeping eye contact with Sherlock - pats the sofa cushion and simply says "Come here." His voice has the barest touch of a command, more an entreaty really. It's soft and full of something - empathy probably. But Sherlock, of course, reads it as pity. And he can't -  he just can't. He turns on his heels and flees to his room. The slam of his door is loud in the silent flat. 

John huffs but follows him into the bedroom - he doesn't bother to knock as he knows he'll get no answer. He strides over to where Sherlock has flung himself full length on the bed. 

"Sherlock?" he tries. But the man doesn't move. If sprawling on a chair can be aggressive, silence can be positively icy. But John is not easily cowed. He lowers himself to sit gingerly against the headboard and moves his hand to Sherlock's wonderful, glossy hair. "It's not pity," he whispers. "Just let me do this. You don't need to tell me anything."

When Sherlock doesn't react, John takes it as consent, however grudging. He pushes a pillow behind his back and settles down, caressing those beautiful silky curls over and over, running his fingers from root to tip. He follows the hair from scalp to nape, massaging as he goes. He relaxes into the movement, it's almost a meditation. He can sense the man beneath him relaxing into the touch. 

He has no idea how long they have been here, Sherlock lying on his stomach, John sitting beside him, rubbing his hair. But after some time, John notices that Sherlock has tensed again, slightly. His breathing has become a little erratic. _Oh_ , he thinks. _Yes, of course_. 

"Should I stop?" he whispers, gentling his movements, waiting. 

"No," comes Sherlock's quiet - but no longer furious - reply. "Only - it's - well, I -"

"I don't mind that, Sherlock." And it's true, he really doesn't. When did that happen? He suddenly realises that he doesn't care, not one bit. "You can take care of it, if you want to," he offers. And he means it. And he doesn't mind in the slightest that he's just offered to touch his very male flatmate while said flatmate gets off. To be honest, the thought is making his own groin twitch in interest. 

John gently resumes the movement of his fingers through Sherlock's hair, engaging his nails to scrape lightly against the scalp, in the way that he knows will draw shivers - and if he's very lucky, moans - from the gorgeous man beside him. Sherlock seems in the mood to oblige. Soon, his erotic noises and moans are filling the room and John is very much afflicted by the sound. Sherlock's hips have begun a steady rhythm and John realises with a jolt that he is rubbing himself against the mattress. He deepens the intensity of his fingers on Sherlock's head, resulting in another beautiful groan and then - yes, it can't be called anything other than humping. Sherlock is humping the bed, desperately aroused, and very obviously enjoying what is going on.

Sherlock's fists clench in the bedding, his movements speed up, his breathing is fast and there's a sheen of sweat on his neck. John counters by speeding up his motions and allows his fingers to move to the back of Sherlock's neck, his ears, anywhere he can reach. Both men's movements are frantic now, as Sherlock chases his pleasure. And then, with another long and luscious groan, he jerks hard, twice, then shudders and stills, the smell of his emission scenting the air between them. 

In the silence that follows, John kisses Sherlock's head gently, almost reverently. He moves off the bed and goes off to deal with his own very prominent erection in the bathroom. He comes, hard, into his own fist, the orgasm more intense than he can remember in a while. As soon as his breathing calms down and he can move his legs again, he cleans up and goes to sit in his own chair in the sitting room. He realises this most likely changes things between them. He's not sure if what they have just done counts as _sex_ or not, but it is very close. And he finds that he actually doesn't mind. He wonders how Sherlock feels about it. But when Sherlock emerges from the bathroom later that evening and flounces over to the sofa, he is silent. 

The moment passes. John waits for some sign, but none comes. It's not awkward, just - not something they're going to speak about, apparently. John wonders if it'll ever happen again. He's not completely sure how he feels about that. He sighs, getting up to makes their tea, then opens his laptop to do some work on his blog. They don't mention it that night, or all the next day. Then a case comes and they're too busy to talk for a while, but it ends eventually and still nothing is said. John shakes his head. Maybe best this way. Life goes on in 221b, regardless.


	6. Not in front of the Neighbours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a mis-step in his petting campaign - but the consequences are worth it in the end..

Things had settled back into a familiar rhythm between the two flatmates. Yet John was aware that underneath the easy flow of daily companionship, something fundamental had in fact changed. Case in point - his friend's rather disturbing presence in John's more x-rated dreams these past few weeks. John couldn't tell when exactly it had begun, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Yes, there was a little guilt at seeing Sherlock in 'that' way without the man's knowledge or permission. But really - they were  _very_ good dreams. Who could blame him for indulging in his room, alone, in the mornings. Or in the shower after breakfast. Or - well. Let's just say that John had pretty much had to re-evaluate nearly 3 decades of certainty in his own sexual identity. Because straight men did  _not_ get off on a regular basis to thoughts of their flatmate's long limbs and silken locks and intense eyes. Oh and not forgetting that lush expanse of arse. And the creamy skin. The moles. No! No - this wouldn't do. Truth be told, it was getting a little bit beyond a fleeting run-of-the-mill sexual interest and heading rapidly towards an obsession.The only problem was - he couldn't find it in himself to care. He knew he should possibly be having a bit of a crisis. But honestly, if Sherlock were only the kind of man who would be  _with_ anyone, he'd have happily  made a move. But no, Sherlock was - well, _Sherlock_. So that pretty much meant he had to keep a lid firmly on whatever it was that this had stirred up for him. He'd have to take what he could get, and a friendship with a man like Sherlock was more than most got in a lifetime. He knew how lucky he was. He would never risk that. 

Sighing, he followed his friend into Lestrade's office - most definitely keeping his eyes (and hands) to himself. Once inside, the atmosphere was tense. The case had come to a standstill, the dead man had been found in one of the seedier parts of town, with the suggestion he was supplementing his income with a little prostitution in order to fund a drug habit. He had ingested a curious cocktail of drugs but they had not come close to identifying a source, regardless of the unusual chemical signature. Sherlock had been up all night mapping out the compounds in the lab at Bart's. However, despite of signs of struggle, there was nothing to prove for sure that this was not just an overdose. Unfortunately, the victim's uncle was a very influential man and was pushing the department hard to find a culprit. The news of his nephew's 'extra curricular activities' would not go down well, especially if there was no murderer caught. Lestrade had been snapping and grousing all morning and everyone was more than a little tetchy after two days and no solid leads.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, leaning on Lestrade's desk and re-reading the file. "This formula is so complex. It's practically a work of art, John." Donovan's head snapped around so fast it had to have hurt. "Of course, a man has died, and you only care about how clever the killer is. Why am I surprised, Freak? Hell, it's probably someone you know, someone from your days as a pathetic tricked out junkie! Lost count of how many times Greg found you in some alley, lying in your own vomit." Her voice was particularly scathing and John flinched internally at the suggestion that Sherlock might have ever - he would never have, would he? - sold his own body for drugs. Sherlock was ignoring her, but John could see that at least some of her barbs had hit home from the tension in the detective's neck. 

"Enough," he yelled. "We're leaving. Give us a call when you're willing to be civil." Greg started to say something but John cut him off. "No, Gregory, I've had enough of this. Don't bother contacting us unless it's with an apology. That was uncalled for and cruel. Sherlock is not your Sargent's whipping boy. Good day." And with that he took a slightly shell-shocked Sherlock by the arm and marched him out of the building. 

Sherlock was silent all the way back to 221b. Try as he might, John couldn't think of a tactful way to discuss what Donovan had said - or suggested. When they got to the flat, they found Mrs Hudson in their living room straightening up, in the way she did sometimes when she forgot she wasn't their housekeeper. Sherlock flopped onto the sofa, curling in on himself as was his habit when in a strop. Except this time, it wasn't a strop. He was upset. He was hurting. Almost without thinking, John went to his side and ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, wanting to comfort his friend. 

Sherlock shot upright on the sofa, a look of incredulity on his face, before he jumped up and stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him. His eyes had bored holes in John's skull. The look had been one of anger and hurt. John took a deep breath. "Oh dearie, is he in one of his moods again? My late husband was just like that, you know. Best leave him to come around in his own time!" John sat in his chair and waited for their landlady to leave. As soon as she was gone, he got up and made some tea, before venturing towards Sherlock's still-closed bedroom door. 

"Sherlock," he tried, gently tapping. "I brought you some tea?" He hated himself for the question in his voice, how unsure it sounded. But he knew he'd messed up by indulging in the temptation to comfort his friend in front of Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I didn't think. I won't do it again. I promise. Come on Sherlock, open the door. Please?"

"It's not locked," came the reply. 

John pushed the door open and ventured into the room, noticing Sherlock was lying on his side, back to the door. "I realise I cocked up," he said, "and I'm sorry. I should have thought first. I promise I won't do it again. "

"Well, we wouldn't want to tarnish your precious  _reputation_ ," Sherlock spat. "In front of an audience. It's bad enough I react this way, without you using it to  _handle_ me John!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Alright? I promise. I won't use it to manipulate you Sherlock. I'm not your handler. You don't need a handler. I know that. Just - sometimes Sherlock, sometimes even you need a friend. And that's what I was trying to be."

Sherlock went quiet at that. John stared at his back and waited for him to spit out whatever it was that was on his mind. 

"I can't do this any more, John," was what he said, in a terribly quiet voice. He sounded so sad, John's heart clenched. 

"Can't do what, Sherlock?" he asked, afraid all of a sudden that he'd be asked to leave Sherlock, leave the flat. 

"You. Me. The hair thing."

"Don't you like it?"

"I do, John. Isn't that the problem? I  _like_ it rather  _too_ much. Don't you see?"

This wasn't making sense to John. "Why is that a problem? You like it, I like it, it works. Why is it a problem then?"

"It makes me want things, John."

John was silent. He couldn't mean - could he? "And that's a problem?" he asked, a little confused.

"It is when it will drive you away," was his only reply. 

John suddenly understood. Oh. His friend looked terribly small curled on the bed. John's heart lurched again. He took a breath. "Sherlock, do I look like I'm leaving? I told you. I like it too. Very much."

He decided to quit while still ahead and give Sherlock some space to process things. He set down the tea on the bedside locker and turned and left the room. 

***

It took about 20 minutes of silent contemplation before Sherlock emerged from his room. It was a lot less than John had thought it might take.  

"When you say you like it.. "

"Yes."

"Do you mean a just-like-friends kind of like it? A not-gay kind of like it? Or - something else?" His voice had trailed off into barely a whisper at the end. 

"Something entirely else, Sherlock." John's voice was resolute, unwavering. He was glad of he sounded calm, glad he could give some sense of certainty to Sherlock with his voice, even though his heart was thundering in his chest. 

"But -"

"Isn't a person allowed to change their minds about something every now and then? I wasn't expecting this, for sure. But I refuse to pretend it's not true."

"So you're saying -" Sherlock seemed unable to finish the sentence. 

"I'm saying I would very much like to continue to be allowed access to those bloody gorgeous curls. And the rest of it. All of it, Sherlock. And in case you were wondering, yes. The answer is yes."

"What - what answer?"

"Yes. I want you too."

Sherlock seemed frozen in the doorway to the sitting room. John - always a man of action - decided he might as well go for it now. He stood and slowly advanced on his friend. There was such indecision, such a world of hurt in those green eyes. It was as if he couldn't believe what John was saying, that someone - and not just someone, John, his John - might want him in return. John couldn't bear to see it any longer. He reached up one hand and slid it along the nape of Sherlock's neck, until it rested comfortably within the riot of dark curls at the back of his head. He smiled. Then he slowly pulled Sherlocks head forward until he could reach those beautiful lips. Without a second's hesitation, he tilted his head and pressed their mouths together, and Sherlock's low-pitched moan was all he needed to hear to know it was going to be ok. 

Neither man could tell you how they ended up sprawled on Sherlock's bed, but suddenly there were too many layers of clothing in the way. Frantic hands pulled and tugged and soon there was the sweet bliss of skin on skin and oh, not enough, still not enough. John's hands could not get enough of Sherlock's curls, each pull and tug and caress rewarded by a moaning, writhing Sherlock. John hadn't meant it to go this far, not the first time, he wasn't sure if he was ready - but - oh, he couldn't help it, he was a lost cause for this man. A double decker bus couldn't pull him away from this.

He knew he wouldn't last long, but had a brief moment of indecision as he wondered how to go about this - after all, he had never been with a man before. Then he remembered his friend rutting against the mattress the last time, and his mind was made up. He rolled them so that Sherlock was on top, and guided Sherlock's long fingers so that he was firmly gripping both their erections at once. "Yes, like that," he breathed. And then he buried his hands in Sherlock's hair and his nose in the space beneath Sherlock's ear and began to thrust into the tight circle of Sherlock's hand. He was met thrust for thrust by Sherlock's hips, and the long hot length of Sherlock against his own hardness was almost enough to make him see stars.  

The pace sped up until suddenly, the change in Sherlock's breathing told John that he was close, they were both so close. John tugged a little harder on Sherlock's hair. His moan was answered by an almost identical one from the man above him. It was just enough to push Sherlock over the edge, and his face as he came was the most erotic thing John had ever seen. It didn't take long for him to follow to a stuttering close. And as he felt the white heat take him over, he knew. He knew he'd never have enough of this. He could never not want this, here, with this impossible man and his impossibly glossy curls.

"Bit not good? Too fast?" gasped Sherlock, some time later, as he tried to catch his breath beside him. There was an undertone of worry in his voice.

"No. Bloody perfect," he replied. "We can do slow next time. At least - I hope there'll be a next time."

"Not just one next time John. I rather hoped for many. Do keep up," Sherlock answered, with a smile. The two men looked at each other and dissolved into giggles. And just like that, John knew. This was it. This was love. He tightened his arms around his new and oh-so-precious love and smiled as he drifted off to sleep. 

 

 


End file.
